


Explosions (it's okay to be afraid)

by a_frayed_edge



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Badass!everyone, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Hunter!Draco, Hunter!Everyone, Hunter!Harry, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Supernatural Elements, UST, lots and lots of gay sex!, snark and sass galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 08:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11733438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_frayed_edge/pseuds/a_frayed_edge
Summary: There are many things about Harry's new mission that he doesn't care for. He doesn't like his partner, the rude and derisive Draco Malfoy. He doesn't like the seemingly aimless search for a set of rings that will lock Lucifer back up in his cage. And he doesn't like the tight feeling he gets in his chest when he watches Malfoy fight.A Supernatural fusion.





	Explosions (it's okay to be afraid)

As Harry shoves the motel door shut with his good arm, he grits his teeth against the rush of pain that explodes from the other shoulder and swallows a groan. He’s made it inside, and that’s something, but the bathroom that holds the first aid kit seems unreasonably far now that he is gauging the distance with suffering in his eyes. It was the ride from the site to the hotel that did him in, he knows. Being stationary allowed his muscles to settle, and now his body is screaming in protest with each movement.

He takes a deep breath and begins a slow trek across the room.

_ This is why you should bring the kit with you,  _ he imagines Hermione scolding him. But she always had a far better memory than him or Ron and somehow that stuff had always just  _ been  _ there, ready and waiting. He’d never had to think of it, never had to double-check that it was packed. Not since that demon in Manchester nearly tore Ron in half and Hermione had spent the drive back to their room trying to stanch the bleeding with a sock Harry found under his seat.

When he finally crosses the bathroom threshold, he decides he has earned a reward, and braces himself up against the door to rest. “Bloody Woman in White,” he grumbles, mind revisiting the scene he just left. “Ghosts carrying guns, honestly….” 

After a moment, he feels strong enough to continue. He gets the kit and, pausing to grab the bottle of whisky from the counter, makes his way to the bed.

His body sags with relief as he settles against the pillows and spreads out the supplies in front of him. He needs the tweezers, he knows, and the alcohol, of course. Gauze. Tape. This isn’t the first time he’s had to put himself back together, but retrieving bullets from his own flesh has never been a task he’s enjoyed.

First, though, he needs to remove his shirt.

One-handed, he undoes the buttons, and shakes it free of his good shoulder. He glances down at the bullet wound, then takes a quick swig of the whiskey. It burns going down, and he focuses on that as he, as gently as he can manage, eases the material away from the wound and yanks it off.

It is impossible to swallow a groan as the pain crashes through him again, white-hot and vengeful. He forces himself to close his eyes, and breathes through it until it ebbs to a dull ache. He pictures a head full of bushy brown curls sitting in front of him and coaching him to  _ breathe in through your nose, Harry, out through your mouth, that’s right.  _

He wishes he could allow himself another moment of respite, but he knows from experience that it is better to press onward while he has the courage, so he clamps his mouth around the clean end of his shirt, and begins the agonizing process of digging a bullet out of his shoulder.

It seems to be hours before he finally places the bullet onto the nightstand, his shoulder doctored to the best of his ability. He blinks back the angry tears that formed in the corners of his eyes and takes another swig of the whiskey. It isn’t enough to dull the pain anymore, but it settles his shaking hands, at least, and slows his racing heart.

No sooner has he decided to just shove the kit off the bed and go to sleep just as he is, he feels his mobile phone vibrate in his trousers. He knows, without looking, who it will be, and he’s groaning even before he has fished it from his pocket. 

“Potter!” Minerva McGonagall’s sharp voice echoes back through the line and Harry flinches as though she were standing in front of him.

“I know,” he answers, before she can continue her tirade. She’s vibrating fury that he can feel all the way in Surrey. “I know, I said I would call when I arrived.”

“Yes, you did,” she snaps. “And yet here I am, taking time from my already busy evening to put in a call to Britain's most infamous hunter, because he can’t be bothered to let me know he hasn’t been stopped by the police, or attacked by a shapeshifter or, I don’t know, found by Lucificer!“

Harry sighs. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“You  _ forgot _ ?”

“I said I was sorry!”

“Potter, I swear, you are going to be the death of me.” He doesn’t answer, and after a tense moment, she lets out a breath. “Did you take care of the problem in Surrey, then?”

Harry grins. “Just now.”

“And there were no complications?”

He eyes his arm and dutifully lies, “None at all.”

“Good. Then I have an assignment for you.”

Harry leans back against the pillows and swallows a gulp of whisky. There’s something heavy in her words that has his stomach twisting into nervous knots, and he wishes, with a force that surprises him after all this time, that there were two mirroring expressions of concern reflecting back at him. He could call them, take comfort in the soft tones of Hermione’s voice or Ron’s booming laughter, but he knows he won’t. He promised himself that he would give them space from all this, and it’s a promise he won’t break, not for anything. They got out safely, and that knowledge has to be enough to get him through these moments of weakness. 

“What’s the assignment,” he asks, when it becomes plain she isn’t going to elaborate without prompting. His eyes droop closed for just a moment before he snaps them open again. “I’m a bit tired, though, so if we could get to the point, that would be ideal . . .”

McGonagall breathes out an irritated sigh, and he can picture her eyebrows knitting together in that way that never fails to remind him that she was once a Professor, before joining the ranks of hunters decades ago. It’s been months since he’s laid eyes on her, and he suddenly feels that loss like a kick to the stomach. 

“We could discuss it over breakfast,” he blurts out. He glances down at his wounded arm. “I could rest for a couple of hours, and then head back to London in the morning, if you’d like. I ran into a Ravenclaw this morning, so at least the area is being watched over.”

“A Ravenclaw,” McGonagall sniffs. Harry senses the waves of disapproval radiating from her. “Well, I suppose if you hadn’t gone into the hunt already knowing what exactly it was you were facing, a Ravenclaw’s insight would have been infinitely helpful.” She pauses. “Of course, I would never send a hunter into a situation with which he is unfamiliar, but I suppose not everyone can be blessed with my gift of reasoning.” 

Harry smiles. For the most part, he hasn’t had problems with hunters from other factions. In fact, one of the best hunts he ever completed with Ron and Hermione was in the company of a Ravenclaw called Luna Lovegood. It was her knack for spotting patterns that lead them to the vampires’ nest, and her research that told them that nothing but a beheading would truly kill them. 

Of course, Harry is well-aware that his experience with Luna wasn’t the norm. Ravenclaws, in general, are known for being the academic faction of hunters. Hunters with decades-long histories on all the monsters they hunt, and an unrivaled determination to know them better than anyone else. Their thirst for knowledge leaves them constantly searching for new information on these monsters, though they are not often inclined to share it. 

Luna was different. Special. She cared more about the end result than coveting her discoveries, a trait that is a rare thing in Ravenclaws, and Harry had been disappointed when they parted ways. Luna might have been a little odd, with her radish earrings and sunflower crowns, but she was one of the few hunters who didn’t seem ruined by the life. She found a way to shine, despite all the death and destruction, and he doesn’t mind admitting that it’s a trait he finds he sometimes misses.

“What time should I meet you,” Harry asks, glancing at the clock. Its digital numbers blink back that it’s just after nine. 

McGonagall sighs. “Then meet me at the Hog’s Head at around eight tomorrow, alright?”

“Yes, Ma’am. I’ll be there.” He starts to hang up, when he hears her voice again.

“And Potter?”

“Yes?”

“Please be punctual. Our guest does not appreciate tardiness.” 


End file.
